


Refuge from These Broken Dreams

by SunriseinSpace



Series: bb!Jim stories [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Holidays, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunriseinSpace/pseuds/SunriseinSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Five Times Jim’s Dad Was There at Christmas and the One Time He Wasn’t</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge from These Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> These are outtakes or side stories for Linger. I wrote this long thing about Jim’s life and suddenly realized I’d never covered any holidays.

I.

“Sammy. Sammy. _Sammy!_ ”

“ _What_ , Jimmy?!”

“It’s Christmas morning, Sammy.”

“Yeah, so? Shut up and let me go back to sleep. It’s not even six yet, Jimmy.”

Jim plops down on the floor next to his brother’s bed and pouts, picking petulantly at the elastic on his sock. Sammy doesn’t _understand_ \- it’s Christmas and there’re _presents_ downstairs, just waiting to be unwrapped, and Jim’s _excited_. Mommy told him yesterday that tomorrow would be Christmas, which means _today’s_ Christmas and it’s time for presents. And Jim _knows_ he was good this year, ‘cause George told ‘im so. Heaving a put-upon sigh and glaring up at his brother’s limp hand hanging over the side of the mattress, Jim climbs to his feet and wanders out of Sammy’s room and down the stairs, tiptoeing past Mommy’s room so he doesn’t bother her.

The tree is dark, ‘cause Mommy’s not up to push the button and make it sparkle, but the glitter stars he made last week wink at him from the lower branches, drawing him over to sit on rug in front of the tree.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, little man?” George asks, stepping around from the other side of the tree and folding himself down to sit next to Jim.

“Which presents are mine?” Jim asks, wiggling his finger into a loose spot on the paper of the one nearest him.

“That there’s for your brother and he won’t be very happy if you open it for him,” George warns with a smile and Jim pulls his hand back to squint intensely at the other boxes. “That one, next to it’s yours. And the one over in the corner there. That one. That one.” George points at each one with Jim’s name on the tag, smiling fondly at Mommy’s messy handwriting.

“What about that one?” Jim breathes, crawling over to stare reverently at the large box propped in the corner by the fireplace. It’s almost as tall as he is, wrapped in shiny blue paper, and Jim can’t find a tag on it, no matter how hard he searches.

“That one’s from Santa Claus,” George answers, a fond smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “And, yes, it’s for you, but, no, you can’t open it now,” he reprimands and Jim pulls his hands back guiltily, reaching out to quickly tuck the torn edge of the paper back into place. George leans over and scrubs a hand over the top of Jim’s head, making Jim squirm because it’s still _weird_ that he can’t feel it.

“But _when_ do I get to open them?” Jim whines, falling over onto the carpet to stare pitifully at his father, who smiles and shakes his head.

“Saints preserve us, Mom’s probably somewhere pointing and laughing – you really are just like I was,” George mutters lowly, blue eyes filled with laughter as he watches his son. “ _Later_ , Jim. You gotta wait for your Momma to wake up and, _no_ , you may not go jump on her.” Jim pouts again but goes to climb up onto the couch and pull the afghan down over his shoulders.

“Wish the lights were on,” he mutters, rolling to lie curled up with his head on a throw pillow and stare at the tree. His eyelids are drooping, making it harder to see the tree in the dim orangey lights coming in the frosted windows. George smiles and moves to perch on the arm of the couch, reaching down to stroke the top of Jim’s head as he snuggles his face into the pillow. Between one slow blink and the next, the room is filled with a gentle glow as the dozens of little lights strung around the room come alive. A sleepy, wondering smile spreads across Jim’s face as he takes in the sight. “Merry Christmas, Daddy,” he mumbles into the pillow, falling limply back into sleep.

+

II.

Mom’s in space this year, unable to get time off for Christmas, ‘cause she’ll be home by the end of January, so this year Frank’s in charge of Christmas and the Riverside farmhouse is running a little lean on Christmas spirit. Oh, the tree’s up and there’re lights all over the living room, just like every year, but Jim didn’t get to make ornaments for the tree this year, ‘cause the “damn glitter gets everywhere”, and none of Gramma Kirk’s crocheted snowflakes are on the windows.

Jim tried to tell Mom that Frank wouldn’t let him make the ornaments, but she’s still mad at him for making a scene at her wedding back in the summer and Sam ran away again last week and still hasn’t been heard from, so she doesn’t really pay attention to Jim’s complaints. Even when he whines that Frank’s ruining Christmas, she just sighs tiredly and rubs her eyes, not looking him in the face as she reminds him that things are different now that Frank’s his dad (Jim is quick to snap that Frank’ll never be his father - _George_ is his father) and he’s just got to adjust. Jim ends the ‘call without another word, just a baleful glare at his mother’s image on the screen.

“Jim,” George says gently, hand on Jim’s shoulder as Jim crosses his arms and plants them on the desk, dropping his chin on top of them. Though Jim can hear that George is standing directly behind the desk chair, there’s no reflection in the vidscreen’s glass, just a blank shot of the ceiling, spangled with colored light from the tree.

“Stupid Frank’s not my dad,” Jim mutters into his arms, glaring down at the fingerprints on the desktop; with Winona away, the general upkeep of the house has fallen to a degree, though it’s still tidy and mostly clean. George sighs and moves around the desk to kneel on the other side, his eyes and forehead just visible above the desktop as he watches his son. “It’s just a couple ornaments. I won’t make that big a mess,” he says, only whining a little. He really wants to make the ornaments this year, had copied out several Elvish symbols from the back of _The Lord of the Rings_ book he snitched from the box under Sam’s bed years ago, but Frank had gone to the department store in town and purchased boxes full of brand-new ornaments and refused to even put the ornaments Jim’d made for past Christmases on the tree.

George’s eyes have gone dark, almost pewter, but they’re creased around the edges, the way they only are when he smiles. “If you quit pestering your mom and step-dad about the ornaments, I’ll teach you how to lock that Chipmunk song on repeat,” he offers mischievously, eyes sparkling with wry mirth as Jim lifts his head from his arms.

“Really?” he asks, excited. George rarely teaches him anything – and never anything like this – but Jim’s always eager to learn whatever George decides to impart to him.

“Yeah, it’s easy. Here, turn on the computer and pull up the command prompt...”

+

III.

It’s down-right tropical here, compared to Iowa, Jim thinks, leaning his chin on the windowsill to watch the stars rising over the waving tree-leaves outside. There’re twinkle lights hung all over the house and the tree in the corner of the other room practically groans under all of the ornaments Jim and Katy’d made this year, glitter falling occasionally to land in sparkling specks on the presents stacked underneath. Aunt Gwen and Uncle Sam are kind and careful to make Jim feel a part of their family, all four of them still trying to figure out how to mesh together, despite the three months Jim’s been on Tarsus. It’s okay, though – even the roughest days in this household are loads better than an average day back with Frank.

“Jimmy,” Katy whispers from the doorway, her nightly braid sprouting adorable little sprigs of hair, her teddy bear clutched in her arms as she crosses the room and crawls into his lap. She’s four and this is the first Christmas she’ll spend on Tarsus. “Jimmy, how’s Santa gonna find us?” she asks, burying her chin into the head of her bear as she waits for his answer.

Desperate blue eyes fly across the room, where George leans, chuckling, against Jim’s closet door. “Careful what you say, Jim,” George instructs, sobering as he stands straight and walks over to brush his fingers through Katy’s bangs. “I know Frank ruined Santa for you a couple years ago, but she still believes. That’s a powerful thing, to one so young.”

Jim thinks for a moment and looks back down at Katy, leaning down to gently kiss her forehead – he may be an awkward ten-year-old, too old for hugs and kisses from his aunt, but Katy’s sweet and smart and everything he never thought he wanted in a younger sibling. And he remembers what it’s like to get that excited over the holidays, remembers the breathless anticipation of waiting to open the gifts under the tree.

“Santa’s magic, Katy. No matter the distance, he always knows where you are and how to find you. Not even planets make a difference in that.” He smiles at the wonder in her wide blue eyes and hugs her close, squishing her bear against his chest. “Wanna hear a story?” he asks and she nods eagerly, burying her mouth and chin in her bear again as she stares up at him.

“T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house,” George murmurs and Jim repeats him, taking up the story as he cuddles Katy’s trusting weight in his lap.

+

IV.

He staggers back to his apartment sometime after midnight Christmas Day, only belatedly realizing the date after he trips over the box Lt. Maddox must’ve left. Squinting through the haze of alcohol and the gloom of the half-lit room, he manages to decipher the writing on the label. His mom’s handwriting hasn’t gotten any better over the years, but his ability to decode it has definitely increased. He briefly wonders if it’s a Starfleet thing, whether he’d be able to read anything Lt. Maddox wrote, or if it was just his mom. Smiling lopsidedly into the darkness, he pops the tape holding the box shut, cursing when he cuts himself with a cardboard edge. Pouting like the child he used to be and hasn’t really been in a long time, he digs into the box’s contents.

A brand-new pair of blue jeans fall out of their careful folds as he pulls them out to stare wonderingly at them. He’d been needing a new pair, especially after he tore open the knee of his ‘best’ pair yesterday at the shop, but what few funds he had left after paying his rent and feeding himself went toward his bi-weekly visits to the local bar, where flings, fun, and fights awaited him – not always in that order. That his mom knew he needed the jeans surprises him. He hasn’t talked to her since the day she threw him out, but it stands to reason Lt. Maddox may’ve been keeping in touch with her, what with their shared Starfleet backgrounds. He scowls again and drops the jeans into a pile next to him.

The next thing out of the box is a new PADD, something else that surprises him. The jeans, he understands – anyone in town, up to and including his mother, could’ve seen him out and about in the ragged pair he’d been wearing recently. No one, not even his landlady, could’ve know that he smashed his PADD last week after catching a news article already discussing how the next month was the twenty-first anniversary of the _Kelvin_ disaster. His mother’s timing is almost creepy and the new PADD is quickly placed on top of the jeans and shoved to the side.

The last thing in the box is a small datacube, his mother’s handwriting indicating it’s “For Jim, From Mom”. Curiosity piqued, he reaches over and retrieves the PADD he’d shoved aside and inserts the cube, cuing up the contents as soon as they load. He smiles when he sees that she’s sent him the extended editions of the original _Lord of the Rings_ movies, the good ones, made back in the 21st century. There’s one other folder on the ‘cube, though, simply label with an alphanumeric designation he finds vaguely familiar. Feeling an odd sort of anticipation, he clicks on the folder and nearly drops the PADD.

It’s a picture of Tarsus, taken out of Gwen and Sam’s front door, back near the time Jim’d first arrived, before everything went sour. The sky is a clear purple-blue, the grass just this shade too-yellow, and there’re two children in the distance, holding hands as the smaller one leans to pick a flower. Jim swallows hard as he realizes what he’s seeing – he remembers that day, when he’d taken Katy for a walk about a month after he’d arrived, but he didn’t know anyone’d taken a picture, much less sent it to his mom. Feeling his eyes burn, he clicks on the other image in the folder and nearly sobs as it loads. It’s him and Katy, faces flushed and immeasurably happy, wrapping paper and boxes piled around them as they dig into their gifts. It’s from his first – and only – Christmas on Tarsus, only months before the crops started failing and panic and desperation set in.

He abruptly closes out the picture and almost flings the PADD across the room, remembering only at the last second that he’s S.O.L. if he breaks this one. It’s not that he’s not grateful to his mother for the pictures (Lord knows he doesn’t have any of Katy; most everything he’d had on Tarsus – including himself – had eventually gone to procuring food and shelter for his kids), it’s just that even almost eleven years isn’t enough time or distance for something like pictures to not rip him open.

Fingers tight enough on the PADD’s casing it creaks, he climbs to his feet and scoops up his new jeans, heading to his bedroom and the bed waiting therein. He tosses the jeans onto the ‘clean’ pile in the corner and tosses himself down on the bed, pulling up the datacube again and starting the first of the movies. It’s not his favorite of the three, but it’s been years since he’s seen them and he might as well start from the beginning. Curling an arm under his head, he settles in to watch the story, eyelids heavy as the sky grows darker, then lighter outside and the hour grows later.

Finally, just as he’s drifting off, the PADD tipping backwards in his hand, he thinks he feels something brush across his forehead. Sighing, he relaxes against the pillow and smiles.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” he vaguely hears and, after so long without it, the warm familiarity of his dad’s voice is soothing as it follows him down into sleep, chasing away the nightmares, for one night at least.

+

V.

“Stupid people, keeping everyone awake with their stupid party,” Bones grumps as he stalks into Jim and Gary’s dorm room and throws himself down on the couch. The roommates exchange a look and Jim hops off his bed and goes to perch on the arm of the couch.

“It’s only 10:30, Bones,” Jim points out, shaking his head at himself as he realizes he didn’t convert it to 24-hour time, still not entirely used to it, even with the first semester over and done with.

Bones grunts and Jim shrugs, standing to go fiddle with the tree in the corner. Gary’d bought it and put the lights on it, but Jim’d made the ornaments, gleefully gluing what Bones claimed was an “unnecessary amount” of glitter to the cardboard cutouts. The crack about the amount of glitter in use had ended in thrown handfuls of the stuff, all of which had to be hastily vacuumed up when a surprise inspection was called the next day. (Pike’d muttered something about emo vampire stalkers upon seeing them and their room, but they’d passed the inspection – luckily, since Jim and Gary both had been one demerit away from losing liberty for the month and, come on, _Christmas._ )

George is standing in the corner behind the tree, watching Jim and Bones with a smile in his eyes. He’s been unusually quiet the past few days, observing instead of contributing. If it weren’t for the fact it’s been over a month, Jim’d think George was still bothered by the Bramese Sweet-fire incident, but something tells him it really isn’t that. Curious and tired of the silent routine, he sidles around the tree, putting it between himself and the room in general.

“Something wrong?”

George smiles slightly and shakes his head. “Nah. Just been thinking.” Jim quirks an eyebrow, the expression absorbed from so much time spent with McCoy. “Remembering,” George admits and his blue eyes darken with sadness and affection. He falls silent again and wanders over to sprawl out on Jim’s empty bed.

Jim watches him go, a hundred questions stuck in a lump in his throat, and goes to sit next to Bones on the couch.

“Wanna put a movie on, Bones?” he asks, nudging his friend’s thigh with his toes. “I’ve got that new Andorian horror flick, _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , and the original _Lord of the Rings_ movies.”

“What is it with you and that book?” Gary asks from across the room, genuinely curious, but mostly ragging on him.

“I just like it, is all,” is his answer, delivered brusquely enough that Gary drops it.

“So long as you have the old black-and-white, might as well watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , it being Christmas and all,” Bones decides and Jim beams at him.

As a general rule, he doesn’t have much time for movies, between his classes and his social life, and what little time he does have usually goes toward studying to fulfill his promise to Pike. He mostly reads during any free time left, but he’ll watch the occasional movie and he’ll only consider owning those he really, truly enjoyed. _It’s a Wonderful Life_ isn’t one he watches outside of the Christmas season, but it had been free on the student network and too good a deal to pass up. The fact that he knows it was one of George’s favorite movies (one of the few questions his mom’d actually answered, when he was five and obsessed with learning everything he could about his dead father) only made it better.

Gary groans loudly when the movie starts, slinging a pillow at Jim’s head and complaining about how boring early 20th century movies were. Jim flips him the bird and turns up the volume, exchanging an amused glance with Bones as Gary slams around the room after that and storms out, telling them over one shoulder not to do anything he wouldn’t do. Bones’ eyebrow quirks and, for some odd reason, a flush spreads over Jim’s face and neck, but neither of them say anything.

George, though, laughs uproariously for a full five minutes and Jim grits his teeth as he resists the urge to either yell at him to shut up or turn up the volume – Bones wouldn’t understand, not that Jim really understands his dad’s amusement.

+

I.

It’s the first major holiday since the _Narada_ ’s incursion and, by the general air of the ship, everyone’s well aware of it. Oh, there’re some people still trying to capture the holiday spirit – Chekov’s been humming Christmas carols under his breath for the last month, Scotty’s hung plastic mistletoe sprigs over the entrances in Engineering, and someone borrowed the Mess Hall’s kitchen and whipped up a killer batch of fudge and sugar cookies – but a circumspect, quiet feeling has settled over the ship, instead of the season’s usual festive air. Even Bones has been different recently, eyes dark and watchful as they eat dinner together or curl up on the couch and watch a movie.  
It doesn’t feel right to Jim, that the first holiday season of the mission should be so morose, so he goes to Uhura and, together, they make plans for a low-key ship-wide get-together at the end of the month. Most of the cultures on the ship are taken into account, as far as possible, and the menu consists mainly of a wide range of comfort foods, from sugary treats to savory snacks and, on the whole, Jim’s very pleased with the way things turn out.

He’s hovering on the outskirts of the party, feeling more than a little alone despite the crush of people in the Mess Hall, an untouched cup of Scotty’s eggnog in his hand. It’s good to see his crew happy, at least somewhat, after the melancholy of the last few weeks. He smiles when he sees Spock and Uhura slow-dancing in the middle of the crowd, turns to comment on it to George, and feels his tighten sourly as he abruptly remembers. Shaking his head, he turns and sets his cup on a table and makes to leave, only to run into the solid bulk of Bones’ body.

“Hey,” Bones says gently, hands coming up to rest warmly on Jim’s neck. “Everything okay?”

“Sure, Bones,” he chirps, falsely happy, forcing a smile he knows almost reaches his eyes. “I’m fine.”

There’s a knowing glint in Bones’ eyes as he nods and wraps a hand around Jim’s bicep, saying, “uh-huh,” in that tone he gets when Jim’s been putting off medical treatment. He pulls Jim out of the party, letting up long enough to allow him to wave at an overly amused Chekov, and down the corridors to their quarters, where he punches in the code and unceremoniously shoves Jim inside, locking the door behind them.

A small tree glitters in the corner, glowing with white lights. Jim hasn’t had time this year to make ornaments, nor has he been in the mood, but there’re silver-sparkly shapes hanging from the tree branches. With a start, he realizes he can pick out the ornaments he’s made over the years, from the first lopsided stars to last year’s blue and silver starship cutouts, and the sight of them all brings a lump to his throat. Bones’ arms slide around his waist, Bones’ chest pressed firm against his back. He shivers when Bones’ starts to speak, quietly, the words fanning gently over the shell of his ear.

“Your mama sent them with the Christmas package this year, one for every Christmas, ‘cepting the one you spent on Tarsus.” Jim half-turns in Bones’ arms, managing somehow to get the tip of Bones’ nose and the fan of his eyelashes in his line of sight, while still leaving the tiny tree in the other corner of his eye. “I told her the holidays were gonna be rough this year. She said she understood.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, just watching the lights on the tree as stars drift past the viewport. They’re orbiting in safe space tonight, hovering above the new Vulcan homeworld, the one gift Chris managed to swing them this close to the start of their mission. It’s only for a day, but it’s worth it for the knowledge that very little will ruin the holiday. Jim’s just glad to be able to set down the burden of command for a few hours and wallow.

“I miss him,” he breathes, tasting the words for the first time. He can admit it to himself but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to say it aloud – somehow, it’s not real if he keeps it to himself. “Shit, Bones, he’s been dead for 25 years, but I feel like I just lost him.” His hands clench into fists where they’re curled against his biceps, nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

Bones nods, his cheek brushing against Jim’s and his chin digging briefly into Jim’s shoulder. “Because you did,” he says and the simplicity of it takes Jim’s breath away. “You’ve known him since you were five and, aside from a handful of years before you joined Starfleet, he’s always been there. You’ve never had to mourn him because he wasn’t truly gone.”

There was a time, once, when Bones was sure Jim suffered from a mental illness, that George wasn’t really real and just a symptom in need of a cure. Then, as they limped back to Earth after defeating Nero, Jim had sat Bones down and told him everything, with as many details as possible. And when he got down to explaining the night Bones told Jim about his father’s death, that’s when belief appeared in Bones’ eyes. Now, neither one can explain _why_ Jim was able to see and interact with his father (and at times, others), but they both accept it as part of their more extra- than ordinary lives.

Jim nods and tilts his head back until it rests on Bones’ shoulder, letting Bones hold him up. Eventually, though, Bones shifts and grumbles unintelligibly under his breath, nudging at Jim until they’re settled on the couch, the glow of the tree picking out gold sparks in Bones’ dark eyes.

“I got you something,” he says and Jim feels the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile at the almost bashful belligerence in Bones’ tone as he leans over to grab a small package from under the tree.

“Yours is—” _in my nightstand_ , he plans to say, but Bones cuts him off with a shake of his head and an impatient gesture at the gift in his hands.

“I’ll open it in a bit,” he promises, eyebrow raised as he stares pointedly between Jim’s face and where he’s picking at the giftwrap. Jim rolls his eyes and slides a finger under the edge, peeling back the paper all in one go. His breath catches in his throat and he feels an odd sense of almost-déjà vu as he stares blankly at the holophoto in his hands.

It’s George, George as Jim always saw him, dressed in a blue-plaid button down the same color as his eyes. It’s _exactly_ the way Jim always saw him, though he’s never seen this picture before in his life, from the worn flannel at his elbows and loose collar of his shirt, down to the warm, affectionate glint in crinkled blue eyes.

“How did you—”

“I talked to Chris,” is the answer and Jim feels something in his chest unclench as he understands that Bones didn’t go straight to Winona for this. “Asked him to put out feelers for a ‘pic from around that last year. Figured that’d be the closest to what he looked like to you.” There’s a pleased sort of smile tucked into the corner of Bones’ mouth that Jim just has to taste, so he does, reaching out to curl a hand around the back of Bones’ neck and pull him in.

“Thank you,” he breathes against Bones’ lips, smiling his gratitude. “It’s perfect, exactly _perfect_.” And Bones grins back, understanding what Jim isn’t saying.


End file.
